190
WOULD I WERE A POET.
Bright thoughts that float a moment on life's ocean,—
Perchance the eyes that gaze on them are blind,—
Then downward fall with an unconscious motion
Back to the past—that maelstrom of the mind.
Perchance the eyes that gaze on them are blind,—
Then downward fall with an unconscious motion
Back to the past—that maelstrom of the mind.
Bright thoughts like glittering phantoms sometimes cheer us,
And make our world a paradise of love;
Yet sad presentiments are ever near us,
Haunting our footsteps wheresoe'er we move,
That we but toil in vain—that we are burning
Our last lamp out, not to be lit again,
Over an idle page of worthless learning,
Which we, alas! would comprehend in vain.
And make our world a paradise of love;
Yet sad presentiments are ever near us,
Haunting our footsteps wheresoe'er we move,
That we but toil in vain—that we are burning
Our last lamp out, not to be lit again,
Over an idle page of worthless learning,
Which we, alas! would comprehend in vain.
Towards a far port our bark of life is steering,
Worn in the conflict with each petty wave,
Upheld by only the vain hope of hearing
A voice of praise, when anchored in—the grave.
Poor compensation for a spirit broken,
In a too aimless and uncertain flight,—
A worn-out life, the sure and early token
Of many a weary day and sleepless night.
Worn in the conflict with each petty wave,
Upheld by only the vain hope of hearing
A voice of praise, when anchored in—the grave.
Poor compensation for a spirit broken,
In a too aimless and uncertain flight,—
A worn-out life, the sure and early token
Of many a weary day and sleepless night.
Too early loved!—well may the spirit falter,
When ploughing through the cheerless sea of doubt,
When thus, before the sacrificial altar,
Morn, noon and night, it pours its life-tides out.
When ploughing through the cheerless sea of doubt,
When thus, before the sacrificial altar,
Morn, noon and night, it pours its life-tides out.
